


Claret

by orphan_account



Category: Carol (2015), The Price of Salt - Patricia Highsmith
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Angst, F/F, Fluff, Harold they're vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-20 16:20:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6016219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I can smell it, you know. The way your blood pulses. I bet you taste wonderful, and I know you want to know what it’s like. Why else would you be here, hmm?”</p>
<p>Therese Belivet should have known that showing up uninvited to Manhattan's Claret club was a very bad idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Claret

The maître d’ asked her if she had a reservation, and for a moment, she panicked.

She forgot that she had traded her jeans for a black taffeta party dress. Draped around her neck, instead of her usual earbuds or camera strap were a string of pearls. She had on heels instead of her customary tennis shoes. And her hair wasn’t mussed down by a knit cap, but instead fell about her ears in waves. Red lipstick and a bit of smoky eyeshadow had completed the ensemble. When she’d looked in the mirror just before she left, she almost hadn’t recognized herself.

“You clean up pretty good,” Richard had said, garnering himself a half-shove in the shoulder. “You should dress up for _me_ more often.”

“Maybe if you took me someplace worth dressing up for,” she retorted, which probably was more than a little unfair. Neither she nor Richard really had the money for going out anywhere expensive. She wouldn’t even be _here_ if Dannie hadn’t floated her the money, with promises that she’d pay him back.

She took a deep breath, because now the man in his deep red-almost-purple jacket was looking at her suspiciously.

“Yes,” she said, willing her voice to sound as haughty as she _didn’t_ feel. “Therese Belivet.”

_Time to see if Dannie’s friend of a friend of a friend came through_ , she thought. This little endeavor was going to be over far too quickly if it hadn’t. Therese pictured herself being thrust out of the club unceremoniously, making the walk of shame back down the steps and into the night. It was just after nine – dinnertime.

“I’m sorry, I don’t see—“ He scanned through the book on his lectern, and her heart sank. “Ah! Wait just a moment, yes, there you are, Miss Belivet. My apologies.” He snapped his fingers and a waiter appeared.

The balding man smiled at her, seizing up a menu and gesturing to the side. “Will you come with me? Shall I be on the lookout for any guest that may be arriving for you?”

“Oh, no,” she said, as she followed him into the dining room. “It’s just me.”

“Well, then,” said the waiter, pulling out a chair for her to sit, then handing her the menu. “I hope you have a lovely evening, Miss Belivet.”

She thanked him, then opened up the slim folder that had been given to her, but she wasn’t too interested in any of the dinner offerings. Her keen (so Therese thought) photographer’s eye was more content to scan the crowd, to absorb the surroundings of the club she now found herself in.

_Claret_ was by reservation-only, though most of Manhattan understood that it actually meant _by invitation only_. That Dannie’s three-times-removed friend had been able to get Therese in was nothing short of a miracle. Just last week there had been an article about a world-famous pop star being denied entry to the New Year’s Eve celebration. He had thrown a fit, claiming that he would write a song about his experience and destroy the reputation of the club, because he was the greatest entertainer that had ever lived. The writer had asked the proprietor for a statement.

“He can write an entire album about it if he wishes,” the woman (whose name escaped Therese) had said. “But _Claret_ prides itself on being a respite for a more discerning clientele. There may be other clubs in New York more willing to accept his behavior, but as for me, I refuse to be moved by a petulant little boy’s tantrums.”

_A more discerning clientele_. The owner would probably go apoplectic if she knew that a collegiate blogger with a camera hidden in her purse was now sat at one of her tables.

Therese had gotten a few great shots of the exterior, even while she made sure she stayed well out of sight of the bouncer at the door. The actual building itself was non-descript: just your typical New York nightspot. It was the people waiting – _hoping_ – to go inside that Therese found most intriguing. So much so that she’d taken a roll and a half of film to capture it all.

Men in sports coats of cheviot tweed milled about talking to other men in their bespoke suit jackets, with overcoats slung over their arms. Still other men were dressed even finer: white double breasted suit jackets with a black bow tie tight at the neck, black shoes shone to perfection and hair slicked back, or adorned with brimmed hats. Smoking wasn’t allowed inside the building, but outside, cigarettes dangled from the men’s lips like Bogart.

And though a few of them were alone, their eyes alight with the fire of _what could be_ , most of them were accompanied by ladies. The lights of New York City shone off the bright gold bangles around their slim wrists, or on broad necklaces set with stone, and dangly hooped earrings. Ladies in circle skirts and crinolines mingled with younger ones in their pencil skirts and girdles underneath. Then there were the women that made Therese stare in awe before she’d snap a picture: those who wore the evening gowns in varying shades of blue, green, purple. They were fishtail fitted and plunging in the back, giving whoever would be accompanying or meeting them a very nice view of smooth, pale skin.

Some of them were very pale indeed, Therese noted, as she peered through her viewfinder and pressed the shutter with an imperceptible click.

The inside of the _Claret_ made it even more obvious just the kind of “discerning clientele” to whom it catered. It didn’t look like any other club Therese had ever been to; certainly not the ones that she and Richard went to on “date night.” Well, all right, he mostly took her to _bars_ , dark, damp joints with peanut shells on the floor and football games on televisions mounted to the walls. Therese wouldn’t find any televisions here, nor would there be any pulsing strobe lights and thumping music vibrating from oversized speakers. There _was_ a bar, off to the side, but there was no beer on tap. Only finer liquor and wine, by the look of it. Some white but mostly brilliant red, dark and thick, served in sparkling glasses.

Round tables to seat four at a time formed a maze on a thinly-carpeted floor; they were covered in a white linen tablecloth, with a small red lamp as a centerpiece. The waiter poured the requested water into Therese’s glass; she ordered the cheapest thing on the menu – soup and a salad. It would come back to her served in red and gold chinaware, leaf-patterned. The silver was heavy: two spoons, two forks. She probably should’ve gotten a crash course on which ones to use, but if anyone was watching her as much as she was watching them, Therese didn’t notice.

At the front of the dining room, a small girl with dark hair and dark eyes crooned softly into a pill-shaped microphone. TruVoice, Therese could read, emblazoned in a thin band around it. Her voice seemed bigger than the girl who owned it, Therese thought, as she sang her way through an Ella standard. She was dressed in pink chiffon, with a gold-and-pearl necklace around her neck that ended in a Y-shape with a small white flower. To her right was the piano player, a man twice her age. To her left, sat alone at a table, a young woman, pale and blonde, stared at the singer with a look of rapt adoration.

Therese grinned to herself. Some things didn’t change no matter what sort of club you went to. Even if that club looked like it had been ripped from the fifties and dropped smack-dab in the middle of modern-day Manhattan.

_Claret_ had a very strict dress-and-decorum code. Therese had watched several frat boys and sorority girls get turned away as she was taking pictures; among the college crowd it was some sort of rite of passage to show up at _Claret_ in jeans and miniskirts and see how far you could get in the wait-line. The group of kids had gotten two-deep and that was it; a bouncer descended and told them in no uncertain terms that this club was not a party for the likes of them. Really, they were all too drunk to care by that time, to do anything but flip off the bouncer.

That had been a lucky shot, for Therese. She could use that in her article.

_Greeks Rebuffed by the Past at Claret_

It didn’t matter if some of the outfit a person wore was a little anachronistic. Therese herself had cobbled together her own dress and jewelry by making a quick trip to a couple thrift stores, and her shoes were just ones that had been thrown into the back of her closet, little used except for the funeral she’d had to go to a year ago. She’d been terrified that the bouncer at the front door would know and she’d be tossed away and lose this chance. But he’d given her a quick once-over and pulled back the velvet rope to let her in.

Still, it seemed that most of the people who frequented _Claret_ were very serious about adhering to the 1950s atmosphere. Like children playing dress-up, Therese assumed. Some of the women clearly spent a lot of money to look the part, and Therese was pretty sure there were some men who had done just the same. Others may have done it solely because it was required, but a person wouldn’t be able to tell just by looking at them.

It was as if Therese had stepped back in time, merely by walking through the door of a club with a reservation that had been obtained by modern conventions.

“Is this seat taken?”

“Oh, well, I—“

But he had already seated himself next to her, and Therese groaned inwardly, still giving him a polite, if a little stiff, smile.

“Hello.”

“Hello, there.” He sounded smooth, as if he was entirely too used to making himself at home with inexperienced girls. As if, Therese thought with a little alarm, that was his _modus operandi_. But he looked nice enough; maybe a little older than Richard, with darker hair and a more refined jaw. His jacket had been clearly tailored, much nicer than what some of the others were wearing. It was the mark of a man who had had a lot of time to cultivate his appearance, in order to make the best impression.

“My name’s John. How about you?”

“Um, Terry,” she settled on, using the nickname Richard preferred. She hated it, but there was no use telling him that. He considered it a term of endearment. She considered it an annoyance she’d put up with if it meant spending another Christmas with the Semco family.

“Terry. I like that. You look like a Terry.”

What did that even mean? She wondered. But she just smiled, and took a sip of her water.

“I don’t believe I’ve seen you around before.”

“No, this is my first visit.” Should _not_ have told him that, she thought to herself.

John’s eyes glittered, and he smiled. Therese’s own eyes widened.

The vampire’s fangs stood out stark and white in the dim light of the club.

It was no secret that the “discerning clientele” the _Claret_ catered to was the vampire community of Manhattan, and Therese had apparently just met her first. Rather than fill her with the confidence of knowing she’d accomplished at least one of the things she’d set out to do that evening, seeing a pair of fangs leering out at her gave her an intense feeling of unease, and she looked around. But there was no one to come to her rescue, and the only exit seemed to be back the way she’d come, or through another door that several people disappeared into as she watched.

Richard had been right. He’d told her she was going to get in way over her head, and now, at her first interaction with a vampire, she was drowning.

“Well, I hope you’ll certainly visit more often.”

She thought if she’d given her empty plate to the waiter, John would get the hint that she was ready to go. But it seemed that was a futile attempt, because now he was leaning on his elbows, towards her, that smile still plastered on his face that practically made his fangs gleam like knives.

“I-I don’t know about that, I was just here to meet someone,” she lied.

“And you have met someone!” He sounded too incredibly proud of himself, too casual. Too assured that he had met… well, his prey, Therese realized.

Somehow, in the last few seconds, she had become… hunted.

Ugh, Richard had warned her this would happen. He’d told her stories about things just like this: young women who’d gone out to clubs and never come back. Or they’d come back, very undead and very hungry. It was going to happen to her, he was sure of it. He kept telling her even as she was getting dressed that evening.

“You’re going to go there, and someone’s going to realize that you have no clue what you’re doing, Terry. And I’m not going to be there to save you, and you’ll wish you’d listened to me.”

She’d laughed him off at first. Now she was thinking that maybe he’d been right after all.

“I mean I’m not _looking_ to meet anyone,” she tried to say, but it seemed to only reinforce John’s triumph.

“Everyone’s looking when they come here, Terry. We’re all just here for… a bite to eat.”

Apparently it was a myth that vampires had a _good_ sense of humor.

Therese scanned the crowd again, hoping someone, anyone, would notice that she was maybe _just a little bit_ stressed and not at all ready to be someone’s dinner.

She caught the woman’s eye, and for a moment, everything froze.

She was blonde, her hair curled and slightly pinned back by a small black hat. She wore a cream-colored suit, which seemed more for business than pleasure, but it didn’t make her look out of place among the pressed tuxedos and formal gowns. She had been making her way through the tables, stopping here and there to greet someone, when she’d noticed Therese.

If Therese had to pick one word to describe the woman looking back at her, it would be _regal_.

Someone in front of Therese stood up to move through the door at the back, and when she looked again, the woman was gone.

“You see that door there?”

John was pointing to where the man in front of her just disappeared.

Therese fought down her disappointment, her urge to look for the woman in the suit, and nodded at John.

“That’s a secret back room. People go there to, well. Get a little snack.”

“Oh. I see.”

“I thought perhaps you and I might— “

“No!” Her voice came out a little louder, a little more panicked than Therese intended, and she cleared her throat. “No, I don’t think so.”

“But hasn’t anyone ever told you that you smell amazing?” His smile was a little more menacing now; Therese reached for her purse. She’d have to replace her camera but smacking him in the head with it would probably be worth it.

“I can smell it, you know. The way your blood pulses. I bet you taste wonderful, and I know you want to know what it’s like. Why else would you be here, hmm?”

“I really have to go,” she said rapidly. “I think I— “

“Aw, now, what’s your hurry?” He laid his hand on her forearm, squeezing firmly. “We’re just two good friends here, aren’t we?”

“There you are!”

John looked up, Therese looked up, and the relief flooded through her as he withdrew his hand.

The woman in the cream-colored suit smiled down at her. “I am _so sorry_ I kept you waiting, why didn’t you come find me when you got here?”

“Uh, well, I— “

“You know Terry?” John said, sounding a little surprised and a lot more like his plan had just been foiled.

“Of course I do!” said the woman, her smile broadening with feigned recognition. “Darling, how are you? It’s been _far_ too long.”

“I’m fine,” Therese said, playing along, grateful that it seemed someone had come along to save her, after all. “You looked busy, I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“Nonsense, you know I don’t mind being interrupted by _you_. John, is it all right if I join you and Terry?”

Something in the way she spoke let Therese know that this woman joining them was not negotiable.

“Actually, I should go,” John said, standing up and offering the woman his seat. His was the face of a vampire trying in vain to conceal anger at his game being changed. “I’ve got to… there’s things I have to do.”

Therese let out her breath in an inaudible sigh of relief as John left without another word to the “secret” back room.

She glanced over at the woman, now sat to her left. Her eyes were fastened on Therese, as if she was trying, somehow, to read her. They were blue, lighter rather than deep. It would be very easy for someone to get lost in them, Therese thought. Or to be uncomfortable under their gaze; she shifted and looked down at her hands, circling her glass of water.

“Would you like a drink?”

“What?” She looked up. “No, I’m not – I don’t – I mean thank you, but…”

This time the sigh Therese let out was heavy, embarrassed. She leaned forward to the other woman.

“I’m not a vampire,” she said, low and guilty.

There was a beat like the pulse of a heart, and then the woman threw back her head and laughed gaily, loudly so that others in the club turned and looked, broadly so that her mouth opened in wide merriment and revealed fangs.

Therese made a face, shuffled in her seat and looked anywhere but at her companion. This had been a bad idea. Such a bad idea, huge even.

The laughter died off, but the sympathy in the vampire’s eyes as she regarded Therese was even worse.

“I was thinking of a drink that is less ichor and more alcohol,” she said. If she noticed how Therese blushed beet-red to her ears, the woman didn’t let on.

“Unless you’re not old enough.”

“I’m a junior at Claire Morgan,” Therese said defensively, then shook her head at herself.

Really, now she’d revealed that not only wasn’t she a vampire, but she was in fact just a mere student of the liberal arts college on the outskirts of the city. If there was any other way she could embarrass herself, Therese was pretty sure she’d be able to find it, in front of this woman – this vampire – who was looking at her in undisguised amusement.

“Well then, perhaps a drink is in order.” She waved her hand; instantly a waiter appeared at her side. “A dry martini, for myself, and for Terry…?” She looked at her.

“Um… the same,” she managed to say, even though she’d never had a martini and she wasn’t even sure if she’d like it. But she’d at least _try_ to fake her way into the woman thinking she had a _little_ culture.

“It’s Therese, by the way,” she said quietly. “Not Terry. My – Richard calls me that. I don’t like it.”

“And you didn’t want to give yourself away to your friend earlier.”

“No.” Therese shook her head.

“And do you have a last name, Therese who is a junior at Claire Morgan College?”

She smiled in spite of her embarrassment. Something about the firm, yet easy way the vampire spoke to her made her feel… well, not comfortable. But at least a bit more relaxed.

The martinis arrived and Therese took a sip before answering. “Belivet.”

“Belivet,” the woman hummed, the martini glass pausing on its way to her mouth. She glanced at Therese over it.

“Therese Belivet.”

There was something about the way this woman said her name that made Therese shiver. Made her want to ask her to say it again. And again.

“What about you?” she asked instead.

“Well, what about me?”

“I’ve told you my name, it’s only fair I know yours,” Therese challenged, sounding a good deal bolder than she felt.

But it seemed to delight her companion, who gave another fanged grin.

“Carol,” she said, and extended her hand over the table to Therese. “Carol Aird.”

Therese took her hand. The contrast of cool skin against her own was a little startling; it made her hold a second or two longer than necessary, before she lightly shook and released.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said, remembering a little of the primer on 1950s manners she’d read the night before.

“Likewise.” The way she smiled made Therese believe it was true.

“You’re the owner,” she suddenly realized, nearly knocking over her martini glass in the process. It was mostly empty anyway; she’d fairly guzzled it down in the hopes that the alcohol would calm her nerves.

“I remember your name now, from the article about the singer.”

“Ugh, I’m not quite certain I want to be remembered for that.”

“No, no,” Therese said hastily. “I mean it’s ridiculous what he did, I was… well, I was impressed with how you handled it.”

Carol was still studying her as she spoke, with a gaze that, again, almost made Therese want to avert hers. Maybe the vampire found her choice of clothes too plain, or perhaps she hadn’t done her hair in the way it ought to have been. There was a strange sort of half-smile on Carol’s face, that Therese couldn’t read.

Then again, she wasn’t exactly the best judge of character, nor did she make the best decisions.

“What are you studying at Claire Morgan?”

“Journalism,” Therese said, a little too eagerly, excited for the first time that evening. “Well, photographic journalism. I take pictures. Oh, I’m not very good, but I’m getting better.”

“And is that why you’re here, to take pictures?”

Therese glanced down at the white tablecloth. She must’ve spilled a bit of soup on it earlier; she ran her finger over the stain and wondered if the vampire would at least let her take it home and wash it before she killed her.

“I’m not a reporter or anything,” she said by way of answer. “I mean I was going to write an article but it’s just for my blog.”

“You have… a blog.”

Now she really did seem amused, almost mocking, even if Carol’s light blue eyes had darkened. Anger was swirling there, Therese thought. Anger at her.

“It’s not much, just… I take pictures of places I go to, things I do. Dannie – he’s my friend – he said I ought to try to take more pictures of people. We’re trying to put together a website, and he thought… Well, he thought if I could actually get in here it’d be a real scoop, so— “

“How _did_ you get in here?” Carol interrupted, and Therese looked anywhere but at her.

“Dannie has a friend who knows someone who hacked into his high school’s records and changed all the grades for him and his friends. He said it was really easy for him to get into your guest list and add my name.”

“ _Well_. I’ll have to fix that, won’t I?”

Therese glanced up at her. “I guess you will.”

Carol had the waiter refill her martini; Therese waved him away from hers. She didn’t need to be both drunk _and_ apologetic. Carol took a long drink, almost draining the glass, before setting it down and regarding Therese again.

“I’m sorry, I—“

“What is it that you were hoping to find out?”

She shrugged again. “Just what it’s like, I guess. I wanted to know what kind of people would come here, what they do. What… what the vampires do here. In that back room.”

“I daresay if I’d been delayed for a second or two John would have been delighted to show you that back room, whether you consented to it or not.”

Therese nodded. “Thank you,” she said, and she meant it. “He made me feel…”

“John’s harmless, for the most part. But he’s young, and sometimes his thirst outweighs his good sense. You will find, Miss Belivet, that even though I screen my potential customers _very_ well, we are still vampires, and you are, frankly, fresh meat. In the basest sense of the phrase. For you to have shown up here under some pretense of gathering ideas for your blog is not only offensive, it is _unsafe_.”

She’d known that, even without Richard’s lectures earlier. Manhattan knew that vampires existed; most of Manhattan even recognized the boom in nightlife that could be had. The clubs didn’t close until light began cresting over the horizon; all of the theaters had midnight showings tailored specifically for their undead patrons.  There were sex shops with names like _BloodLust_ where, Therese had heard, vampires could feed and take their fill in cramped little rooms crowded together like so many closets.

Therese also knew that there were areas in Manhattan to which you just didn’t go after dark. Or places like Union City in New Jersey. Where vampires not like the ones at the _Claret_ roamed, vampires that politicians said killed without remorse, driven by their thirst and their madness to feed on any unsuspecting woman or child that crossed their path. It was fearmongering at its finest, Therese thought, but it seemed to be working: signs had begun to appear in places like stores and restaurants with catchy slogans such as “No Heartbeat? No Service.”

She didn’t know any vampires, wouldn’t be able to consider anyone “like that” a friend, but it still made Therese angry. That was part of what had driven her to _Claret_. Surely, she told herself, they weren’t _all_ like that. Surely she’d be able to use her words and her film to frame a portrait of just how perfectly normal a vampire could be.

Only now, seeing Carol’s stormy expression, did Therese realize just how absurd she’d truly been.

“I’ll be needing your film.”

Therese let out a sigh, not giving a damn if Carol heard. _Of course_ she would want her film, she thought to herself as she opened her purse and took out her camera. _Of course_ Therese still used actual 35mm instead of digital, telling anyone and everyone who would listen that there was something just so _pure_ about taking pictures and developing them herself, in a dark room with Billie Holiday piped in through her phone.

She dropped the roll of film into Carol’s outstretched hand. Carol quirked an eyebrow at her.

“And the other one.”

Well, now how had she known that? Therese wondered. She grumbled a little, digging through her purse and finding the other roll, handing it to Carol with probably a little more aggression than was necessary.

And Carol smiled at her, a little bit knowing, a lot triumphant. “What’s the name of your blog?” she asked suddenly. “In case I want to read it.”

Therese’s eyes widened, her mouth dropping open a little. The last thing she wanted, at that point, was for this woman to be reading her blog.

“It’s, uh, ‘Therese Trolls Manhattan,’” she said, sounding embarrassed. “It’s not very good, like I said.”

“Hmm, perhaps I’ll judge for myself sometime,” Carol said, palming the rolls of film with a bit of a smirk. Therese wished she had another martini; her mouth felt suddenly dry as cotton.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted out. “I should’ve asked.”

Carol lifted one shoulder, casually. “I have to protect my guests, Miss Belivet. But please don’t think that this doesn’t also extend to _you_. Guests of _Claret_ expect a certain level of anonymity, and a chance to relax, to get to know someone in an environment that welcomes them. I’d consider it a failure if you walked out of my club tonight having felt unwelcome, despite whatever shenanigans you played to get in.”

“Oh,” was all Therese could say.

“I would also…” Carol finished her drink, tracing the rim of it with her finger as she regarded Therese. “Consider it a failure if you left this evening without promising me a chance to get to know you better.”

Therese looked at her, stunned. Less than five minutes ago she was being lectured about putting guests at _Claret_ in jeopardy, and now this woman wanted to know her more? It was enough to make her head spin, or maybe it was the perfume Carol was wearing, Therese couldn’t be too sure.

“I don’t know if that would be a good idea.”

“Perhaps not.” She rose from her seat, and Therese was startled at her disappointment, the sudden emptiness that was the lack of Carol next to her.

She really did carry herself like a queen, Therese thought. The suit fit her in the best of ways, snugly over rounded shoulders and hips, making her look more glamorous than even the women here in their finest silks and chiffons. She looked down at Therese with a sort of smug anticipation, as if she knew what Therese was thinking, as if she expected that Therese would take her up on her offer, because surely Carol Aird wasn’t used to hearing the word “no,” from anyone.

Richard looked at her that way, sometimes. Therese realized she infinitely preferred it from Carol.

There was a hand on her shoulder, light, a thumb trailing over the fabric of Therese’s dress.

“Do consider it, will you, Miss Belivet? Oh, and no more pictures this evening, please.”

She walked – no, she _sauntered_ off, those rounded hips swaying in perfected rhythm with every step. Then she stopped, turned, a woman expecting to be stared at, and Therese Belivet had complied without even realizing it.

Carol Aird smiled, winked, and left Therese floundering helplessly in her wake.


End file.
